The Friday Before
by bloodrosered
Summary: This takes place during the events before Saturday detention, describing how each member of the Breakfast Club ended up in detention that Saturday, March 24th 1984. TRIGGER WARNING: There are topics in this story that deals with topics including suicide and bullying. READER DISCRETION ADVISED
1. Elephant Lamp

(TW: mentions of suicide and bullying. Reader discretion advised)

**FRIDAY, MARCH 23rd 1984**

HOME ROOM, 1st PERIOD

Brian Johnson was getting ready for school, carefully packing his bag so that his parents wouldn't suspect anything. He had carefully planned out his last few moments. It had to be perfect.

He could still see the big fat red F on his project. After he got his elephant lamp back in shop class, he felt sick. He hid his shame in his locker. There was no way he could bear this: it was the first time he ever got an F in his life.

Thursday night while everyone was asleep, he cried into his pillow. God! His parents would be furious if they found out that he failed shop.

Fucking elephant lamp! He couldn't understand why the light wouldn't go on. He tried to reconfigure the wiring. He asked his science teachers what he could do. He was smart enough to figure out how electricity would work. It was a matter of science: there was physics involved.

He tried...yet every time he pulled the fucking trunk, his fucking light wouldn't go on.

He couldn't tell his parents that he failed. They expected...well, more like his mother expected the best from him.

His entire life had been had mapped out. Ever since he was in elementary school, maybe around 4th or 5th grade. When his parents found out he had a much higher intelligence than other children, almost immediately his mother put him in advanced classes. She insisted that he had to have all As in order to get into a prestigious college. He basically had no life, no fun, hell he couldn't develop any friendships with others.

Since then, he had been locked into a title of nerd, unable to escape it. He was mocked for being smart, became a frequent target for bullies—he had some nerds he hung out with in his clubs, but he saw them as more colleagues than friends. His only real friends were some of the staff and teachers at Shermer High.

He was close to Carl Reed, the janitor, who often found Brian in some kind of trouble. He often had to get him out of a locker he had been stuffed into, getting hung by his underwear in the boys' bathroom, bubblegum in his hair, his clothes soaked from swirlies or liquids in the lunch room. There were a select few embarrassing moments in gym class where Brian got depantsed, pummeled by dodgeballs, tangled in the volleyball net, hell they laughed at how he couldn't hit or throw a fucking ball for shit—despite his mother had insisted that he was not to engage in any physical activity. He did run the track since he didn't have to engage with anyone. At least he got faster at running from his tormentors.

He had befriended the school nurse, Barbara Dennis. He frequented her office—whether it was to hide from bullies or to throw up from all the stress. Sometimes he'd come in with a black eye, a bloody nose, his spirit broken. Surviving the harsh jungle of high school was a law of nature: survival of the fittest. The weak got weeded out.

He was a weak specimen.

The library was the only real sanctuary to Brian Johnson. He never felt more safe than anywhere else. Surrounded by the silence and books. Books were one place he could escape from the harsh reality of the world—escape his nagging mother, his emasculated, absent father, his annoying little sister, Laura, the bullies, the cruelty of high school.

But this time, no book could help him escape the harsh reality that he got an F in shop class. That F just flashed in front of him like a neon light. He was a Hester Prynne, bearing the scarlet letter of his shame.

F for Failure.

He couldn't let anyone know. Not his parents. His peers. His teachers. The admissions department at Yale. He didn't know what to do. How could he hide his shame. He had hidden the failing grade in his locker. Oh God! What if Mr Ryan, the shop teacher, had called his parents to meet with them? Oh God! He'd be better off dead than them knowing he failed.

_Better off dead._

The words echoed through his mind. This seemed like the only option. He'd take the secret to his grave. Nobody would miss him. Nobody took notice of him except to tease or torment him. His parents didn't seem to care about what he wanted.

He desperately wanted to be normal. He wanted to be appreciated. He wanted real friends. Yet nobody seemed to want to be friends with him. He had nobody to talk to about his feelings.

Thursday night after crying and making sure everyone was asleep, he went into the garage to find something that would hopefully do the job. He had read a psychology book about statistics of suicide in the public library. There were different methods one could take their life—one seemed to be the most effective.

It was then he came across an orange flare gun among his father's tools. It would get the job done. It was a firearm. He read the instructions on how to load it. When he'd do it was a matter of timing. He wrapped it carefully in his backpack and placed the flare gun, loaded and ready when the time came.

Friday morning, he carefully placed the flare gun, wrapped in a paper bag in his locker—the stupid elephant lamp rested on top of his mountain of books, notebooks...

As Brian sat in home room, his hands wouldn't stop shaking and sweating as the moment would come soon to end all his misery—his thoughts were interrupted as he heard his name paged by Ms Grace Rooney, the principal's secretary, to come to Vernon's office. A few mocking oooohs erupted as he hardly got sent to the principal's office followed by hissing whispers. The blond turned red with shame, gathering up his backpack to head to the principal's office.

Once he arrived, he found a very grim looking Mr Ryan standing at Vernon's desk; the vice principal sat there with his hand folded as he stared with his steel gray eyes.

"Sit down, Johnson," Vernon said in a very serious tone.

The mousy boy was trembling like a leaf as he hugged himself, sitting down in the chair in front of Vernon's desk. He had never been so scared in his life. Surrounded by two male authority figures, which he had humbled himself to respect at all times. He could feel himself shrinking.

"Johnson, Mr Ryan told me that there was an explosion in your locker," Vernon said. "Among the debris, he found the remains of a firearm."

Brian turned whiter than a sheet. Oh fuck! He was screwed! He was going to be sick. Or faint. He didn't know what he was going to do.

"You want to explain yourself?" Vernon asked.

Brian felt sicker as he was questioned. Adrenaline rush through his thin body. His heart was pounding so loud in his ears. He began to hyperventilate.

"Johnson, do you understand how serious this is?" Vernon said. "Bringing a firearm to school..."

"Rich, it was a flare gun," Mr. Ryan said. "I'm sure Johnson didn't mean any harm..."

"Marty, it's a handgun," Vernon emphasized. "It still constitutes as a firearm. And possession is one-tenths the law. This is punishable with time in prison and expulsion...maybe a mental hospital..."

"Really, Rich. Johnson wouldn't hurt anyone," Mr. Ryan said. "Sure he's not doing too well in my shop class, but Johnson is a good kid."

"Good kid or not, Marty, this is serious..."

Brian could barely hear Mr Vernon and Mr. Ryan's words. He heard a few words about how serious his actions were. He felt lightheaded, feeling all the blood and lack of oxygen rush away from his brain...

"Johnson?" Vernon said.

"Johnson? Are you ok? You look like you're gonna be sick," Mr Ryan asked concerned.

Brian felt the vomit rise up his throat, he doubled over and threw up on the floor, coughing. Vernon and Mr Ryan jumped back at the boy vomiting. Vernon wrinkled his nose in disgust. He paged Carl to come clean up the mess.

"Marty, will you take Johnson to the nurse?"

The boy's eyes rolled and he fainted on the hard floor of Vernon's office...everything went black...

* * *

Brian woke up in Nurse Dennis's office, lying on a cot. He felt dizzy from the fainting spell in Vernon's office. It was then the school nurse turned her head when she heard Brian stir from the cot.

"Brian?" Nurse Dennis said gently.

"What happened?" he mumbled confused.

"You threw up and fainted in Mr Vernon's office, honey."

It all came rushing back as he remembered the last few minutes. He felt sick. Humiliated. He was beyond scared over what was going to happen to him after the whole explosion in his locker. God! He couldn't go to jail.

"I...I think I'm..." he groaned sickly.

Brian ran to the toilet nearby, he dry heaved a couple times before vomiting. He screamed as his breakfast came up.

Nurse Dennis looked over her outdated 1950s glasses with a concerned look; she was dressed in her white uniform with a nurse cap on top of her brown graying hair.

Brian sat curled up on the bathroom floor, unable to stop panicking. He felt something snap and burst into tears that sounded like a baby. Nurse Dennis shushed him, placing a cool paper towel on the boy's face. He continued to blubber noisily, fat tears rolled down his face. It was very rare that Brian cried. He had been told that boys weren't supposed to cry.

"I can't...I can't go to jail or a hospital..." he blubbered. "Please...I can't..."

"Brian, what are you talking about?" Nurse Dennis asked confused.

"I'm in trouble..." he sobbed. "I did something very bad...Mr Vernon said I could go to jail..."

"Brian, honey," Nurse Dennis said. "That's not going to happen. Mr Vernon has decided to give you detention."

"That's even worse," the blond nerd cried.

"It's just detention. It's no big deal."

"I've never got detention in my life," Brian blubbered. "This is going on my permanent record. I won't get accepted into Yale because of this."

"Brian, I'm sure Yale isn't going to care you had one detention in your life while you were at high school."

"You don't know that."

"Maybe, but think of detention as a lesson learned so you don't make that mistake again. It's one Saturday out of your life and it'll be over before you know it."

Brian wiped his eyes with the paper towel; his baby blue eyes were red from crying. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do in detention.

"What am I supposed to do while I'm there, Nurse Dennis?"

"Nothing," the school nurse answered. "You just sit there in the library, listen to Mr Vernon and it'll be over with."

"What about studying or homework?"

"I'm afraid you can't do that while you're there."

"So I'm just to sit there and do nothing all day? My mom isn't going to like that."

"Maybe detention might be a good thing for you-you can have a break from schoolwork. It'll give you a chance to think about what you did and what you can do to better your future. Maybe you'll meet some people there and make friends."

"Nobody wants to be friends with someone like me," he mumbled miserably. "I'm a loser."

"Oh honey...that's certainly not true," Nurse Dennis replied, placing a comforting hand on Brian's trembling shoulder. "You're a very smart boy. You're very sweet. You're kind. You worry way too much though...just try to relax while you're in detention. Don't think about studying or homework."

Sniffling, the blond nerd nodded lightly as he wiped his nose and teary eyes with a tissue. He stayed in Nurse Dennis's office until he was well enough to go to history class.

As Brian sat in history class waiting for Mrs Russell, he realized he got his first detention. He was so screwed...his parents weren't going to be happy about this. He was trying to figure out a way to explain himself about what he had done to earn his very first detention.

He feared his mother's wrath more than anything. Brian tried to think of a what to say when he got home after school. On a positive note, he wouldn't end up in jail or a mental hospital. That was one positive thing. Plus it would give him a chance to get away from his nagging mother and his annoying sister.

Yet if he told them why he brought the flare gun and explained his intentions, would his parents be understanding?

No. Probably not.


	2. Tape

(TW: this story contains a scene of extreme bullying)

GYM CLASS: 4th PERIOD

The boys' locker room was in its usual atmosphere during fourth period gym class. The boys were standing in front of their orange lockers, changing into gym clothes, chatting and laughing. Towels and clothes were tossed into lockers or giant laundry baskets, deodorant was sprayed on. Socks and gym clothes were pulled on. Sneakers were tied up.

The floor and benches were littered with various items and belongings of gym clothes, letterman jackets, jeans, sweats, wrestling singlets, deodorant spray bottles, jockstraps, protective cups and athletic tape. Various odors lingered in the locker room of dirty, wet towels, gym clothes, socks, underwear, cigarettes, deodorant, soap and male musk. The sounds echoed of chatting and laughing from the half-dressed boys, even a shower running.

Andrew Clark was getting ready for gym class, goofing around with his jock buddies as he changed into his gym clothes. He had the body of a Greek god: lean and muscular, yet smooth. He was pretty well developed as a teenage boy of 17. He grabbed a roll of athletic tape and began to wrap up his knee, ready to work with Coach Whitaker on some wrestling moves for the next meet on Saturday.

Andrew was a good kid. His mother taught him to be kind to others. To stand up for women and those who were weaker. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Andrew often did his best to treat others with some respect.

His father expected nothing less from Andrew since he was a star athlete. Being a former jock himself, he wanted his son to be number one. He made it pretty clear on his views about weakness and losers. He wouldn't accept defeat. He wouldn't tolerate losers. He thought Andrew's mother was a fucking moron to encourage that be 'kind to others' and 'do your best' shit. He wanted Andrew to be a man. A tough man.

Ever since Andrew was small, his Dad encouraged him to play sports. Whenever Andrew's team lost a game, his Dad would react poorly. He'd say harsh things about how losers are weak.

_Andrew! You've got to be number one!_

Larry Lester stood a few lockers down from Andrew Clark and his jock buddies, hugging his clean gym towel in his sweats. He observed the other boys in the locker room: they were lean and muscular with an appropriate amount of hair in the right places.

Poor Larry was skinny and a few inches shorter than his classmate, Brian Johnson (or as the jocks referred to him as Blondie Johnson). But the one reason why he absolutely dreaded gym class was because he had to endure the embarrassment of exposing his very hairy body to his peers. He was hairier than Stubbie Durkins—who had hair on his back and ass. Yet nobody made fun of him.

Swallowing nervously, the Lester boy approached his locker in trepidation. He tried to remain invisible to Clark and his friends. He hoped they wouldn't bother him while he got changed for gym. He began to remove his clothes while his dark eyes darted nervously around to make sure they weren't watching.

Too late! Stubbie had seen the little weak kid a few feet from where he was standing. He elbowed Andrew and Tom Patterson to get their attention and chuckled as he watched Larry get undressed, standing in just his underwear.

Aside from a few nerds and dweebs his friends teased, their absolute favorite target was Larry Lester.

"Lookie here, Lester the Molester is here," Stubbie said.

Andrew glanced over at Larry, listening to his friends laugh and crack jokes about his appearance. While Andrew found it funny, he knew what his jock friends were doing was wrong. He just stayed silent. He chuckled quietly at their jokes and resumed taping up his knee.

"Hey, Clark," Bobby Pitcher, another jock said. "Wanna mess with Lester?"

Andrew just shrugged and tried to play off the suggestion by making a lame excuse to not engage in this. His mother had told him to be kind to others.

"Maybe later. I don't wanna be late for Coach," he said. "The meet this coming Saturday is gonna be brutal. Coach said they got a new wrestler and he's a beast, man."

"Oh come ON, Clark!" Tom said. "You never mess with anyone. This is a perfect opportunity."

Andrew had considered cutting loose on someone-mostly because his Dad had told those stories about his glory days in high school: all the crazy things he did. Some harmless pranks on weaker kids. Every time he brought up those stories, Andrew sensed his Dad was disappointed he never did any of those things.

_Hey, I screwed around. Guys screw around. There's nothing wrong with that._

Yet his mother told Andrew that he should not behave like that. It was the main reason he held back and refused to engage. If Andrew was totally honest with himself, he secretly didn't like it when his friends bullied the weaker kids. Especially in gym class.

There were times he wanted to say something, but he was scared his friends would turn on him. Cast him out. He had to maintain his jock image if he wanted to belong. He went along with some of it and made some neutral, yet subtle comments about how his friends should just leave them alone. Not enough to make his friends think he was on the weak kids' side-but just enough to know when they had enough.

His father would argue with his mother over how their son should behave. His mother did not like that kind of jock behavior picking on kids. Yet his father said that he should cut loose once in a while. It's how jocks should behave.

_I won't tolerate losers in this house! Your intensity is for shit!_

He kept thinking about how he didn't do well at the last match. His Dad yelled at how he didn't tolerate losers. Weakness.

He had heard that since he started playing T-ball. His fucking old man. How he insisted on winning. One time in 2nd grade, he got clobbered with a soccer ball, his old man told him to walk it off. Tough it out. Be a man.

"C'mon, Clark!" Rogers said. "Think of something. Anything, man! Now's the time."

As Andrew began to hear the words of encouragement from his friends and his father's words about weakness, about his stories, the peer pressure began to mount...it was then his crystal blue eyes fell on a roll of tape that he had been using earlier for his knee.

Andrew suddenly felt like he was having an out of body experience—he was watching himself grab up the roll of tape and approach Larry.

Larry didn't have time to react when he saw the athlete approach him. His dark eyes widened when he saw a mischievious look on Andrew. In a flash, Andrew jumped on Larry, pulling his gym shirt over his head, blinding him. His friends laughed and cheered Andrew on, hooting like gorillas.

"What are you doing?!" Larry cried muffled. "Stop! Leave me alone!"

The jocks just laughed, mocking and jeering his protests. Andrew slapped him in the head to disorient him. His friends took turns shoving Larry around and slapping him in the head. Larry became disoriented and dizzy from the whole ordeal.

Once Andrew was satisfied, he bit his tongue and twirled the athletic tape on his finger. He figured the kid would struggle.

"You're in for a little makeover, Lester," Andrew said. Then looked at Tom, "Hold him down!"

Tom bent Larry over the bench, restraining him with a wrestling move so that he couldn't move—his back was to Andrew. Bobby pulled his pants and underwear down, exposing his hairy bottom.

Larry was whimpering as he was restrained, blinded and terrified. His neck hurt from being held down. He felt the back of his pants being moved. He heard the roars of laughter from his tormentors and the dreadful sound of tape being unraveled. He wondered what they were going to do to him.

Andrew stretched the tape at a good length. He placed one end on Larry's left buttcheek, creasing it down and stretched the tape across the boy's bottom to the right, making sure it was nice and tight.

Once the deed was done, Andrew felt a rush of adrenaline and swell of pride at what he had done to this kid. He could imagine his old man praising him when he told him what he did when he got home.

Eventually, Larry was released. He lay on the bench, feeling dizzy from the blind man's bluff game and the stiffness of the tape on his skin. Larry stood up with difficulty and pulled off his shirt from his head, looking at his taped ass with confusion. He was greeted by a loud chorus of screaming laughter by Andrew Clark and his jock friends.

Andrew was met with praise by his friends; each of them exclaiming how legendary this was and how it was going to be something to remember for the rest of his high school days. They patted his back, ruffled his hair and shook his hand. He actually felt proud about what he did.

Larry struggled to get the tape off his ass, debating whether or not to rip it off fast or peel it slowly. Larry had attempted to get it off, but it was really stuck tight. Feeling humiliated over the whole ordeal, Larry tried to pull his pants up, which proved difficult since the tape prevented him from bending over. Tears began to well up in his eyes because it not only hurt bend over, but the whole ordeal was humiliating. He lowered his head to hide his face, pressing his back against the lockers.

"Aww...Lester's gonna cry," Rogers mocked.

"Yea, boo hoo, Lester," Andrew added cruelly. "Be a man and tough it out!"

The jocks mocked Larry by making sobbing noises and pantomimed crying, which was followed by boo hoos and laughing.

Coach Dean Whitaker heard the raucous noise coming from the boys' locker room and went in to investigate. He spotted Andrew and his friends with and a depantsed Larry Lester in just his underwear standing like a cornered animal. He frowned at the scene wondering what had just happened. It was when he heard Andrew being congratulated by his friends for doing this, it was pretty obvious who was responsible for this.

"What the hell is going on here?!" he demanded angrily.

The laughter had eventually stopped when reality dawned on them that Coach had arrived at the scene. Larry stood quietly, his head lowered with shame.

"What's going on, son?" Coach Whitaker asked, looking at Larry. "C'mon..."

"I..." Larry said meekly. "I'm...stuck...sir..."

Some snickers slipped from the group of jocks. Coach Whitaker frowned.

"Stuck? How are you stuck?"

Larry shook his head, his face was red. Tears were already threatening to fall from his dark eyes. He didn't want to tell the gym teacher that Andrew was responsible for fear his friends would retaliate.

"Well, son...show me what happened," Coach Whitaker asked. "I can't help you if you don't show me."

Larry reluctantly showed the coach what happened, making the gym teacher frown a bit as he tried to decide how to proceed with this.

"Ohhh boy," he said with a sigh. "Alright, son, let's get this off you."

Coach Whitaker got a grip on the athletic tape and began to pull the tape slowly. Larry emitted a loud scream of agony that reverberated in the locker room as the adhesive stuck to him. Dark body hair came off along with bits of Larry's skin, turning it a raw red color.

"It hurts! IT HURTS!" Larry sobbed; tears were falling from his eyes.

When Andrew observed this, he looked as though he had woken up from a horrible nightmare. It wasn't funny anymore. Larry was sobbing hoarsely; he was in pain and was suffering. Some of the jocks looked at each other with a mixture of disgusted amusement, shame and unease.

"Lester, calm down!" Coach Whitaker said. "Dammit! If you keep moving, we can't get it off."

"It hurts, Coach!" Larry wailed hoarsely.

"I know. We'll get it off. It'll be all over soon. Just calm down and stay still, Lester."

Coach turned to the group of jocks who were witnessing this. It was pretty bad. He figured the nurse would have to get involved with this.

"One of you go get Nurse Dennis," Coach Whitaker instructed.

"Yes, sir," Bobby said, taking leave of the locker room.

"The rest of you get the hell out of here!"

The jocks found their way towards the exit of the locker room. Andrew began to feel guilt claw inside him. Hearing Larry's screaming and seeing how much he had hurt him just now had brought forth feelings of remorse for his actions. How could he do such a thing? He went to join his friends outside.

"Not you, Clark," Coach Whitaker said. "You stay right here."

Andrew sighed with a frown. Leaning against the wall and watching a sobbing Larry as the gym teacher pulled more of the tape off slowly; Larry's screaming and sobbing filled the locker room. Andrew felt sick as it dawned on him that this was all his fault. How could he? He tortured this poor kid because he wanted his friends and his old man to think he was cool.

Eventually Nurse Dennis arrived on the scene with ice packs and gauze. Vernon had also joined the scene. Coach Whitaker had filled him in on what Andrew had done. Vernon glared at the guilt ridden athlete.

"Clark, get your sorry ass in my office...NOW!" Vernon said sternly.

"Yes, sir," Andrew said quietly.

Andrew made his way towards Vernon's office. He sat down to await his punishment. He could still see what he had done: poor Larry Lester screaming and bawling like a baby, his skin raw and red. He couldn't imagine that poor kid having to go home and explain what had happened to his Dad. That he, Andrew Clark, was responsible for the whole ordeal. The humiliation Larry had endured just now must've been unreal.

Andrew lowered his head, feeling tears prick his crystal blue eyes. Sniffling, he tried to push them back. He kept hearing his father's words about how weak he was.

_Andrew! You're weak! You've got to be Number One! I won't tolerate any losers in this family!_

That son of a bitch! It was HIS fault! He was the one who told him it was OK to screw around. He did and this is what happened. He caused unneccessary pain and suffering to some poor innocent kid because of what? Because he had to prove himself. Because he wanted to be cool. He couldn't believe how fucking stupid he was.

"Andrew Clark!" Vernon called as he arrived at his office. "Let's go!"

The athlete got up with a sigh of remorse and trepedation as he entered Vernon's office. The vice principal sat at his desk, staring at the varsity letterman who disappointed him. Andrew couldn't even look up at the angry face of Vernon, but he could sense that he was in deep shit.

"What you did was absolutely disgraceful, Clark," Vernon said disgusted. "I expected more from a varsity letterman."

"I'm sorry, sir," Andrew replied ashamed.

"What you did would be considered grounds for benching and banishment from the team," Vernon said. "But Coach Whitaker said the championship is coming up in a few weeks. And given you are Shermer's star athlete..."

Andrew was barely listening to Vernon's stern lecture. All he could hear was Larry screaming. His humiliation. How he was crying. He was trying to figure out a way to apologize for such a despicable thing he did. There was no way. Nothing could take this back. He had scarred Larry for life.

"Clark?" Vernon said. "Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry, what?" Andrew said, shaking his head as he snapped back to reality.

"I said you are getting detention Saturday, Clark."

"Saturday, sir? But my meet..." Andrew protested.

"You can miss one meet, Clark. I have spoken with Coach Whitaker about this and he has agreed to let you miss it. Consider this a fair punishment than being benched from wrestling the rest of the season."

"Yes, sir," Andrew said softly, still feeling the guilt clawing at him.

"Good. Now get out of here," Vernon said, handing Andrew a detention slip.

As Andrew went back to the locker room, Larry was gone. His jock friends were gone. The screaming still echoed. Andrew changed out of his gym clothes and headed to class. His parents were going to be so disappointed in him that he got detention. Especially his old man.


	3. Nothing

ART CLASS, 5th PERIOD

Allison Reynolds hunched over her sketchbook as she thought about what she was going to do this weekend. Hell, it wasn't going to be with her parents-her brainwashed, self-absorbed parents who did nothing but sit around and talk about themselves or what was going on in their lives. No. This weekend was going to be different than the boring routine at home.

The mornings starting out with her father reading the newspaper and her mother reading magazines like Women's Day or Better Homes and Gardens while sipping their coffee or tea, eating breakfast that they made...for themselves.

They assumed Allison was old enough to learn how to make her own breakfast. Mostly it was cereal or toast.

After that, they'd get ready for work. They'd throw together a lunch for Allison without thought or care. Olive loaf on white bread with butter slapped on lazily with pixie stixs and a bag of cereal. They put no thought into making her lunch. They just assumed she liked whatever they gave her so they could go back to their lives.

In the evenings when they got off work, they would go to the living room and drink a cocktail, talking about their boring lives: her father sold insurance and traveled sometimes. Her mother was a sales clerk in the ladies' lingerie department in the mall. Dinner was prepared for them...she was allowed to eat or to make her own meals.

For as long as Allison could remember, she would try to get their attention in different ways, but they just responded with the usual dismissive and apathetic response:

_That's nice, Ally._

_Not now, Ally._

While her parents provided some basic care to their daughter like food, shelter and clothes...the only thing that was lacking was an emotional bond. Love. Attention. Care.

While Allison still didn't get attention from her parents, it was then she began to pick up a few habits on whether or not they would notice her.

First it started with the crazy statements like how she was going to run away, was having sex with random guys and girls, just anything that came to mind. Just something to get their attention and notice her. Her parents made the usual statements.

_That's nice, Ally._

She wondered if her parents even cared. Would they care if she disappeared forever? She may as well not even exist at home.

That's when the stealing began. It started small at first when she would pluck up small items: an earring, a ring, a bracelet. Eventually it evolved into several bigger items. She stole her parents items around the house. Then it evolved to outside the home where she began to steal whatever she saw. At the mall. At school. Over time she had accumulated junk in her home that she had stolen.

There was one time she actually got their attention when she took the chainsaw out of the garage. Her parents were more furious that she had interrupted their conversation rather than the fact that she was playing with a dangerous tool.

That's when they sent her to Dr. Rachel Hashimoto.

Dr Hashimoto was a kindly Japanese-American school counselor. While she had tried to get Allison to open up to her. Naturally she wouldn't speak. Dr Hashimoto was patient and understanding that she didn't want to. Most students didn't like talking about their feelings. There were the occassional sobbing and dramatic ones too.

Allison was a hard nut to crack.

While Allison was waiting for her session with Dr. Hashimoto, she noticed some beautiful ink wash paintings on the walls. She loved the brush strokes of the black ink in the landscapes. The bamboo stalks and leaves. It seemed...aesthetic. Real. The monochromatic colors gave it a life like essence. It made it more real despite little color it had.

"Do you like these paintings?" Dr. Hashimoto asked.

Allison turned her head towards Dr Hashimoto, still staying silent. Her black hair hung over her eyes as she spoke.

"They're called _sumi-e. _It's ink wash art that was brought by Chinese monks to Japan," she said.

Allison merely shrugged, still remaining mute. She felt staying silent would be best. Nobody seemed interested in her opinion at all. Not at home. Not at school. Nor anywhere. She wore clothes and behaved in ways that warned others to keep their distance. Dr Hashimoto didn't seem too bothered by her strange behaviors. Allison guessed it was her masking her real emotions with professionalism as a school councelor.

"I have seen your artwork, Allison," Dr Hashimoto said. "It's amazing. Mr. Ferguson, the art teacher, said you are very talented too."

Only a neutral expression remained on the mute girl.

"If you'd like to try doing these paintings, I can show you how to do them. I, myself, haven't done it since I was a little girl...but my mother encouraged me to try it."

The next session, Dr. Hashimoto brought in some art supplies that were used for _sumi-e_ paintings. She showed her some examples of how to paint. Allison just sat silently watching in almost a fascination. She encouraged Allison to try...she merely stared at the brushes. When Dr. Hashimoto sat at her desk to write her notes, she saw Allison took a liking for it and was painting landscapes with the brushes.

During the sessions when Allison came to the school counselor, she sat in silence and did her artwork. Dr Hashimoto didn't mind the silence. She would attempt to talk to the girl at times, but with not much success. She encouraged her to use her artwork to express herself...yet she adamantly refused to show her work to the school counselor.

Aside from the art room, Allison did enjoy being with Dr Hashimoto. She could spend hours sketching, painting, even using the little zen garden to draw patterns in the sand. While they spoke very little to each other, what fascinated her was the school counselor wasn't bothered by the long and intense silence. She couldn't understand how someone like that could be so tolerant of silence. She wondered if Dr Hashimoto was strange and unusual.

"How can you stand it?" Allison asked.

Dr Hashimoto looked up from her notes with a surprised look that the basket case had actually spoken.

"Stand what?" she asked.

"The silence. It must drive you crazy."

"Not really. I'm used to it. My family is from Japan-silence is something that is valued."

"You don't feel like you're being ignored?"

"No. In Japan, silence can say a lot-it is a sign of respect, a good way to avoid disagreements, and defiance."

"That's really interesting..." Allison said with snark.

Dr Hashimoto frowned a bit. She was a bit offended by this remark, yet she remembered her culture about the value of silence. She remembered her professionalism and ethics on treating students with dignity and respect regardless if they were disrespectful towards her.

"Do you have any plans this weekend, Allison?" she asked kindly.

Allison just shrugged. She had nothing to do that weekend. Why should she be stuck at home with her two brainwashed, self-absorbed parents?

School was alright. It was no different than being at home. Lots of people talked about what a weirdo she was, ignored or avoided her. She would do things for shock value. Some kids teased her, but she would find a way to shock them that they'd never do it again. Some things she'd do was eat Doritos in the bathroom, bite her fingernails loudly and spit them at whoever offended her. She would make very strange lunches. She was smart and did her homework. She didn't talk much. Aside from spending time with Dr Hashimoto, she loved spending most of her free time in the art room sketching and painting. Mr Ferguson, the art teacher said she could come in even when he had class going on.

"What's going on Saturday here?" she asked.

"Just detention from what I heard," Dr. Hashimoto responded. "Why?"

Allison shrugged mutely again. She figured it was better than spending a boring weekend with her parents. She decided to go to detention on Saturday. She had nothing better to do.


End file.
